


Flores Imperatorum Amissorum

by Eravanthia



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:49:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23331922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eravanthia/pseuds/Eravanthia
Summary: "Sometimes I steal flowers from your garden on my way to the cemetery, but today you've caught me and have demanded to come with me to 'make sure the girl is pretty enough to warrant flower theft' and I'm trying to figure out how to break it to you that we're on our way to a graveyard"
Relationships: Balthier (Ivalice Alliance)/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24





	Flores Imperatorum Amissorum

**Author's Note:**

> I saw this textpost on pinterest and decided "you know what? Let's see where I can get with this." Spoiler? I really like where I got with this.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't know Flower language, google was my friend for that part.

The first time I noticed something amiss in my flower garden, I shrugged it off. I could have sworn the camellia bush had an extra couple blossoms on it before; but maybe I was just remembering wrong. It had been a long week, after all, and I had been bone tired more often than not when tending to my flowers.

The second time I noticed it, I was  _ sure _ this time. There were two carnations missing from one of my clusters. I stood in my garden for a good ten minutes that day, just staring at the cluster of pink blossoms, before shaking my head and getting to work. Wherever the flowers were going, I could only hope their beauty would be appreciated.

Over the following weeks I noticed a pattern to the flowers disappearing. This flower thief, whoever he or she was, always came at some point during the day on Fridays. I figured out the pattern by checking on my garden before leaving for the day and checking again when I returned home in the late evening. The flowers had disappeared on Friday for the past three weeks. It was never the same flower back to back that was taken, but the thief did seem to favor the camellias and carnations over the others.

After two more weeks of my flowers disappearing I finally got curious. Sure, maybe I was a little irritated too; who wouldn’t be when someone just waltzed through their yard to steal a flower or two every week? So, seven weeks after the first flowers disappeared, I stayed home on a Friday.

I asked a friend to cover my evening shift at the diner, emailed my professors to let them know I wouldn’t be able to make it to class that day, then I settled myself in front of the window overlooking my garden to wait.

The semi-sheer material of the drapes would be enough to hide me from the casual observer; it had been seven weeks without the thief being caught in the act, whoever it was probably wouldn’t be watching very closely for me at this point. At the same time, however, I could easily watch any silhouettes that ventured close to my garden.

I took a sip of my tea and contented myself to playing solitaire until my mystery guest made their appearance. It was 4:30 in the afternoon before someone finally approached the garden. They paused on the other side of the fence, and it took hearing the squeak of my gate to bring my attention back to the garden outside.

The silhouette -in my far from expert opinion, at least- was male. This male was likely taller than me, based on the height difference between his silhouette and the blurred form of the fence. I stood from my chair carefully, but quickly, being sure to make no noise as I moved across the room to the front door.

The door opened quickly and I stepped down off the front step, moving to the gate to cut off the thief’s escape. I crossed my arms and raised an eyebrow as I turned to face him, only to be mildly surprised. The thief didn’t look upset or nervous about being caught, he just gave me a small, somewhat wry smile.

“My apologies,” he said, and I took a slow deep breath as I set my face into a neutral mask. Accents were lovely things, in my humble opinion, and this thief’s accent was a thing of beauty. His voice was deep and, combined with his smooth British accent, he managed to sound lazy and sassy all at once. “I just happened to notice your lovely garden one afternoon as I was passing by, and I knew a woman who would appreciate it.” I narrowed my eyes slightly.

“Is that so,” I drawled slowly. My slightly southern American accent was nowhere near as pretty as the refined accent of my thief but, still, his eyes widened for a split second. “This woman is special enough to you for you to steal flowers from another woman’s garden for her?”

He faltered then, so fast I almost missed it, before he covered himself with a slightly larger smile.

“Absolutely,” he responded, no doubt at all in his voice and a slightly faraway look of longing floating behind his expression. I hummed once before gesturing toward the flowers.

“Fine, then. Go on, take your flowers.” I turned to my door, leaving the slightly shocked man standing there looking after me. His trance seemed to break when I crossed the threshold into my house and he turned back to my garden to claim his flowers for the week.

I was waiting next to the gate, front door locked and a leather jacket resting comfortably on my shoulders when he turned around. This time he looked somewhat wary when he approached, a single dark crimson rose held carefully between his fingers.

"Alright, let's go," I said, gesturing to the gate.

"I beg your pardon?" The disbelief in his voice was almost cute.

"Let's go," I repeated with a smirk. "I need to make sure she's really worth your flower thievery."

"I-" he paused as I opened the gate and stepped onto the sidewalk on the other side.

"Come on, Flower Thief," I said with a playful smile.

The man sighed and stepped through the gate as well, closing it behind him. "Balthier. My name is Balthier," he told me as he turned to lead the way to his destination.

"It's nice to meet you, Balthier," I responded with a happy grin and gave him my name in return. Once I found out why he had been stealing my flowers my irritation died away. Now I was just purely curious. What kind of woman warranted flower theft? If the woman would appreciate my garden, why not just bring her to see it?

Balthier, for his part, seemed mostly lost in thought as he led the way to wherever we were headed. I observed him carefully while we walked; the way his short, dark blond hair defied gravity in the front, his multiple silver cuffs, studs, and tiny hoops adorning his ear (and presumably the other ear as well, though I couldn’t see it), the various multi-colored rings on the fingers of his left hand. He made for a fascinating picture. I looked back up to find his pale green eyes watching me carefully.

“So if she doesn’t meet your standards, what will you do?” He sounded almost worried and I hummed softly as I looked away to watch where my feet were taking me.

“That depends on the standard she falls short of, Flower Thief,” I said with a smile. “If she doesn’t actually appreciate my flowers, you won’t be stealing them anymore. Other than that, you’re free to continue your flower thievery for as long as you see fit.”

I looked back over to him to see his lips parted slightly. He didn’t seem to be reassured; if anything, he seemed to be even more unsure. I sighed, my smile dropping as I tried to think of a way to put his mind at ease.

“That flower garden kept me sane after I moved to this city to start fresh, Balthier. I just want to make sure my flowers are being treated right after they leave my garden,” I explained softly. “I owe nature that much at least.”

He hummed slightly and turned us down a driveway. A driveway for the last place I expected to end up after cornering my mysterious flower thief.

A cemetary.

I felt my mouth fall open slightly and furrowed my brows as I looked around at the rows of headstones, my feet following Balthier on auto-pilot now as my mind registered all the signs I’d missed. I didn’t see a single other person we could be meeting here, which could only mean…

_ ‘Pink camellias- Longing for you... _ _   
_ _ Pink carnations- I’ll never forget you…’ _

_ ‘Every single flower he’s taken equates to loss or longing in the flower language.’ _

My eyes shifted to the flower he’d chosen today. A dark crimson rose.

_ ‘Mourning…’ _

_ ‘Son of a-’ _

“You’ve figured it out, then,” Balthier said softly. My eyes snapped up to scan his face before locking with pale green.

“I- I’m so sorry. You should have told me no,” I whispered. “I only invited myself along because I was curious.”

We had come to a stop in front of an obviously well cared for grave with a woman’s name on it.

“Carmina leit Bunansa,” Balthier said softly, taking the withered flowers -carnations matching the ones that disappeared last week- from the vase affixed to the headstone. He replaced them with the crimson rose in his hand. “She adored flowers and had a garden similar to yours before she died.”

The birth date on the stone put her closer to my mother’s age, where Balthier looked to be around my own age.

“Your mother?” I asked softly, glancing over to him. His eyes cut away from the grave marker to meet mine before finding their way back to the cold stone.

“Indeed. She died when I was still young, but I was very close to her before then,” he explained. I reached a hand out to squeeze his upper arm sadly. “I come here each week to make sure her stone stays maintained and, silly though it may be, so that her spirit knows I haven’t stopped thinking about her.”

“My flowers are yours for as long as you want them, Balthier,” I whispered sadly. “I’m sorry I invited myself along to something so personal.”

Balthier swept a hand over the top of the stone, murmuring a soft prayer and a goodbye before he turned to look at me.

“Nonsense, my dear,” he said, offering me his arm like a gentleman in a storybook. “You were well within your rights; I had been stealing from your garden, after all.”

I took his offered arm with a small, hesitant smile and he led me away from the graves.

“To make it up to you, I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me.”

I narrowed my eyes playfully. “You won’t be stealing this dinner from a chef whose kitchen you just happened to pass by, will you?”

He broke into a lighthearted laughter. “Certainly not,” he assured me through his chuckles. “How do you feel about Italian?”

“My dear Flower Thief, lasagna is the key to my heart,” I responded happily.

He hummed once, a contented look drifting across his face. “Then lasagna you shall have,” he said serenely as we made it back to the street. “Maybe eventually I’ll steal more than just your flowers.”

His words shocked me into silence and he chuckled softly to himself, squeezing my hand lightly where it still held his arm. When I broke from my shock I smirked over at him.

“We’ll just have to wait and see, Flower Thief. You never know; I could be a lesbian just trying to get free food out of you as payment for all the flowers you’ve stolen.” I motioned to the half-withered carnations still gripped in his hand.

“Then I owe you a dinner all the same,” he replied easily. I laughed again as he led the way down the street. This would be an interesting story to tell someday. I had no doubt that if he actually intended on stealing my heart, he could easily do so. All that was left was to see where this strange beginning would lead us.


End file.
